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“Or you could score,” Rhys snaps out. “Maybe let’s not start a fight in the end of the second. We’re up by one. Let’s lengthen that gap. There’re only like fifteen seconds; at least run out the clock.”
I nod, before Rhys launches into what he wants from our line. My playing minutes are already higher than I anticipated—and our locker room fifteen during intermission was too crowded for me to grab anything, so my side is aching. But I’m playing wonderfully.
Holden and I both—a perfect fucking pair.
We lead with one goal and a goose egg for the other team, and I couldn’t be happier.
“Let’s fucking do this, boys.”
Rhys wins the face-off, a smile on my face because he’s kept that record perfect all game. It’s almost embarrassing for the Grizzlies. Holden catches the puck and flings it, a little too hard, spinning hard around the boards, clattering behind the net. Mercer keeps an eye on it, but he’s close to the post.
Their winger—fucking McKill—chases after it and I follow behind him. He’s ahead of me, but I’m bigger, faster, and a better fucking player than him, so I catch up easily, until—
He cuts inside at the last second, slamming his entire body low into my abdomen, shoving us both into the glass.
I can’t stop the pained shout as my vision goes hazy and I drop to my knees, slumping into a heap, another cry pushing out of my mouth.
There’s a ringing in my head, and I grit my teeth as I look up and over the sudden chaos. At first, I’m sure I’m seeing things—that I must’ve hit my head somehow too.
But it’s real.
McKill is locked into an all-out brawl, gloves dropped, with Rhys Koteskiy. Holden has someone else—the entire team is defending me. There’s almost a smile on my face, but it’s forced through pain.
A trainer lands in front of me swiftly. “What happened?”
“It’s my abs.”
“Your ribs? Or the muscles?”
“My skin is torn up—” I shake my head. “Bruised pretty bad too. He hit me real fucking hard, but I’m fine.”
“Bullshit you’re fine. I’ll decide that,” Harris snaps, standing over me now. I didn’t even see him approach. “Get him off the ice and into a training room.”
• • •
“It’s just bruised,” I bite out through a wince as the trainer presses on another part of my Starry Night tattoo.
“Yeah?” Coach Harris is fuming, eyes fiery and more intense than I’m sure I’ve ever seen them. “A shit ton of bruising. You look like you got fuckin’ run over.”
I wait for it, the inevitable shouting. The What the hell were you thinking, Kane? You’re being so damn selfish.
“How much pain are you in?”
“Sorry?”
“Tor . . .” His chest is heaving. His hand drops over mine, not quite a hold but comforting even if it’s slick with sweat. “How bad is it hurting? Do you need meds? The hospital? You gotta talk to me, son. What happened?”
Son.
The word isn’t reprimanding. It’s soft. Caring, almost unintentional.
“I’m okay,” I say, and he looks at me, disbelieving and disgruntled. “I promise,” I double down. “It’s from like a week ago. I’ve been playing fine with it like this. It’s just that fucking kid hit me right in the ribs. I couldn’t breathe—”
A shuffle of skates and a flurry of clacking cut me off as the team makes their way into the locker room.
Holden is a sweaty, bloody mess as he beelines for the smaller room they have me in, his eye already swollen. Rhys and Freddy are behind him, equally sweaty, slightly less bloody. They fill the entire doorway.
“What the hell happened?” I ask.
